B
by Mandolina Lightrobber
Summary: Being stranded in a backwater town doesn't provide much entertainment. All you can do is just... be. /Defershipping. Malik Ishtar x Shaadi./


**A/N:** For the YGO Fanfiction Contest Season 12 Round 4. The pairing**: ****Defershipping – Malik Ishtar x Shaadi.**

Steampunk AU. Continuing with the same 'verse I created for _"Desert Sands" _and_ "See"_.

**Disclaimer: **Kazuki Takahashi and all associated companies are the rightful owners of the Yuugiou! franchise and I claim no association with any of them. No copyright infringement intended with this and no money is being made from this. Please support the creator by purchasing the official releases.

**Warnings:** worksafe.

* * *

**B.**

Melek hates this little town. He's been trapped in it for well over a month now. He knows every corner (not that there are many), every narrow and dusty street, has become familiar with every face of every inhabitant – as they have with him. Ever since that one Britannian traveller passed through to never return, nobody has come to this town. The fields of sand pan out tantalizingly calm and subdued as far as the eye can reach. It's been well over a month since it has stirred – since the last sandstorm raged around this town.

He gazes out at the desert with loathing, knowing its deceptive calmness to be a mere ruse. Yahmir lies in wait for him – and anyone else stupid enough to dare cross without his leave – but there's no one else here that doesn't belong but him. The natives of this small town know better than that. Everyone in Ta-Mehu knows better than that.

He lost to the desert demon once and that debt has not been cleared yet. He knows better than to challenge him to a game a second time: if, by chance, he loses, he would have to give up his soul instantly. All he can do is sit and wait for another traveller to come to this town and lose to the demon to void his old score. It's a harsh rule, but the sandy plains of Kemet aren't exactly known for being tender.

Melek has never been one for waiting, and he is especially less so now. His family waits for his return, but he is forced to dawdle here. Now that his father is dead, he ought to have been finally freed from his duties, but instead it has brought him nothing but fear and uncertainty. He doesn't live; he exists. For the time being – in _this_ godforsaken place where the mayor has given him a modest abode in one of the least ruined buildings, all too familiar with his unfortunate affliction. (He isn't the first; he won't be the last.)

He knows the alchemist in the square, knows that he tells fortunes so vague and roundabout that it's not wonder people think they come true. He speaks cleverly and twists his words around and around until you start forgetting what your question even was. He's made a friend of the smith, having helped him work the bellows on occasion, and the driver of the water wagon, having filled his barrels often enough to lose all count. He knows that the man working the bread stall has a wife and three children, and his neighbour selling fruits and dried treats is in a large debt to the mayor. He keeps away from the Mazoi, though he admires their horses from afar whenever they bring them out. Their dwelling takes up several buildings, surrounded by high walls, and nobody knows how many of them actually live there, or how many horses they actually have. Their faces are always covered during their comings and goings and they make everyone uneasy, though they ensure peace and safety. There is a rift between them and the mayor – this he has learned from the other inhabitants – but they don't care about the leader of the town and his rulings, and the leader is too scared of them to do anything.

His new temporary home disgusts him – someone who's used to a life more comfortable, more secretive – and with due reason: it is but four walls and half a roof. His bed is a pile of sand and his cover is his own cloak, and for as long as he works for the benefit of the town, he receives a daily allowance of food and clean drinking water. It's not much, but it's enough to tide him over. Still, the madness draws ever tighter around his mind.

He's losing count of days, resenting his sister who had chosen to stay behind and regretting to have parted ways with Rashid – his brother and guardian, and servant. But he had to move onwards, driven by fear of retribution for he would be branded a kinslayer if the King's men were to ever catch on that the Keepers were no longer residing in their underground seat near Kharga – and that they hadn't, for a while. But it's a caravan road and the small overground community that thrives there has never been the wiser at just what kind of secrets lie beneath their feet, though they do know that there is another city underneath the sands. All of them have been sworn to breathe no word of it to anyone.

They have always been one of the last to see the technological progress that has pushed the rest of the world far ahead. The underground hallways are still illuminated by torchlight – at least they had been when he'd still dwelled there. (Who knows what his sister has made of the place, now that she is the one in charge as the matron of their clan.) On his way here, Melek has seen many incredible things – many of them less glorious than the hushed tales made them out to be. He has seen the airships – and what they look like reduced to nothing but scrap metal and burning material. He cannot venture beyond the city's limits, but he has seen many locals trek to the dunes and bring back any piece of ruined aircraft they can get their hands on.

He has studied the slowly churning fountain in the town's square; he has watched the lanterns being lit as the darkness settles, casting flickering golden-orange light upon the streets all night long. He has seen numerous strange items on display in the mayor's office – things he doesn't know the names for and whose purpose he cannot even begin to guess at (and sincerely doubts the mayor does either). He has seen the gears inside the clocktower, which chimes in midday and midnight, but not any of the other hours as it ought to. He has seen the water pump in the mayor's inner courtyard (because he's had to work it almost every day to earn his stay) and he knows that it reaches deep into the ground where the clean water is. He doesn't know what, exactly, makes them work, but he isn't particularly interested in that. Now, if he could get his hands on one of the motorised vehicles…

He's not used to physical labour and his hands are riddled with calluses, but the work keeps him occupied. Keeps him sane. (It also angers him and breeds resentment because it's not what he was born to do.) It passes time, making the waiting duller.

He thinks he's finally getting his break from this town when a new traveller arrives. One morning, he's just there, in the main square, settled down on a rug a modest distance from their alchemist, plenty of magic charms and amulets laid out to his right and a wicker basket in front of him. He sits cross-legged, arms tucked in his loose sleeves, and turbaned head leaning slightly forwards, gaze not focused on anything in particular. There is a new camel with ornate reins tied beside the water trough, which could only belong to him.

Melek loiters in his usual place on the far side of the square (which isn't all that far, by any accounts), just watching the newcomer. When people start to gather, rumour spreading fast of the new arrival, the man raises his head, revealing startling blue eyes, and tilts his head in a slight bow before producing an odd-looking flute from his sleeve and starting up a warbling melody. It isn't long before the red cloth draped over the basket lifts. After a few more trilling notes, the stranger reaches out with one hand and throws the cloth aside, revealing a snake with its hood spread out. It lurches at his hand, but it's gone in an instant, and the flute resumes its previous dance. The animal remains stiff for a moment before the swaying of the ornate ribbons and strings of tiny colourful pearls at the end of the flute entices it, making it sway from side to side, following the bright tangle as it dances through the air.

It takes Melek a while to realise that he's been holding in a breath. He expels it with more force than necessary, irate. He loathes snakes – ever since one bit him in his childhood. That memory brings back others, even less welcome ones, and he grits his teeth against the flurry of emotion he'd suppressed quite successfully. It reminds him of his father and of seeing him… He interrupts that thought, though it's already too late and the image of his mangled corpse is already branded in his mind. He leaps off his perch and stalks away angrily, heading for his morning duties. (Today, it's shovelling sand out of one of the half-ruined buildings and fixing it up enough to make it fit for living – for other unfortunate travellers just like him.)

He does come back to the square after he is done with his work, but the stranger hasn't left. In fact, it seems like he isn't going to move for a while. The crowd around him is even larger than it had been in the morning and the warbling music sounds anew every now and again, enticing the snake out of its basket, which, in turn, makes the crowd chatter, gasp, and laugh excitedly. This only serves to further irritate Melek. He scans the gathering, looking for the sign of wrongness that is the desert demon in disguise, but he doesn't seem to be there.

He slowly makes his way over to the fruit stand where he purchases a handful of dates and instead of paying for them ends up fastening the loose side of the weathered and sun-bleached canopy back into place, as the old seller predicts an approaching sandstorm.

"Has he already shown then?" Melek asks, pulling the thin wire and looping it around the pole back, forth, back, forth before tying it in a tight knot. He doesn't need to specify who the 'he' is supposed to be – everyone knows, even if nobody ever dares to speak the desert demon's name out loud for that, they believe, is the way to summon him. None of the town's inhabitants want to incur his wrath by bringing him out as a result of carelessness. Rumour has it (and he is inclined to believe it to be more than just a rumour), that the rubble bordering the marketplace used to be the former mayor's dwelling until he called the demon by the name and had no task, no bargain to offer.

"Not yet, but he will soon enough."

He gives a nod of agreement, barely capable of suppressing the thrill that surges up his spine: finally, _finally_ he will leave this town behind.

* * *

A week passes, and then another. Yahmir hasn't showed and the stranger is still there. It doesn't seem like he is going to leave anytime soon. The crowd around him has diminished, as most of the townspeople have already tired of the dancing snake, but there are still enough of those who are starved for entertainment and they last almost a month before the snake charmer becomes commonplace.

After barely anyone stops by him for an entire week, Melek finally approaches him under the pretence of studying the items laid out on the rug beside him. Amulets and charms with inscriptions in languages current and ancient, familiar and foreign; writing so odd he isn't sure it can even be read. He thinks to start up a casual conversation, but decides against it. The man seems asleep: his eyes closed and head tilted forward. His hands are tucked into his sleeves again and the oddly shaped flute is nowhere to be seen. He lets his gaze glance over the other man's clothing and has trouble imagining how an instrument that size could be hidden so easily up his sleeve when they aren't that wide. He frowns and turns his attention back to the charms, torn between speaking up and leaving. The foreigner solves that dilemma for him.

"I know what you seek," he says in a low voice and for a moment Melek isn't even sure he's heard him speak. The man reaches into his sleeve and pulls out his flute (studying it up close he can see that it's made of a dried gourd fitted over a mizmar), raising it to his lips. "I don't have it."

The music starts and Melek knows what's about to happen. He thinks he should leave, but something keeps him rooted to the spot. Soon, the red cloth rises and he watches in fascination as the stranger reaches out to pull it off. He is only half-aware of drawing in a sharp breath and holding it when the reptile lunges for the charmer's hand, lightning fast – almost too fast for the eye to follow. He watches the snake begin swaying, mesmerised by the sight. He feels captivated, and disgusted, and – he has to admit this to himself – in some distant corner of his mind, even scared a little. It takes him a moment to break the spell and refocus on the man's words.

"How do you know what I seek?"

The melody trills to a stop, bubbles up for a few more notes, then stops briefly again. Blue eyes rise up to meet his briefly, then shift back to watch the irate adder as it tries to slither away. He reaches out to catch it and pull it back.

"The same thing everyone else does – answers." And he focuses on playing again, incorporating new notes and twisting the melody this way and that, producing tones Melek hasn't heard before.

The snake is swaying, trying to twist along with the music, and the former Keeper suppresses a shiver. It reminds him of far too many things he'd rather forget. He leaves, forcing himself to not hurry, but every fibre of his being confirms this as a defeat of sorts, and he resolves to never come near the stranger again.

It isn't mean to last – that resolve. It's a small town, after all, and there are only so many places one can go and half of the towns business is carried out in that one small marketplace. He learns that the stranger's name is Shedad without even asking for it and that nobody knows how long he'll be staying – not even Shedad himself.

The second time Melek stops beside his lot, he does so because something around the other man's neck has drawn his attention. It is an ankh, though somewhat oddly fashioned, and he cannot remember him having it before. Shedad is rearranging the items on the rug and doesn't even spare a glance at him as he approaches.

"What is that?" Melek asks, gesturing towards the item. "That thing around your neck."

Piercing blue stare lifts to meet his gaze again and it takes a moment for him to answer. "A key."

"A key," he echoes, eyebrows pulling together in a light frown. "That's a strange thing to be carrying around like that."

"Not at all." It's the first time when a hint of a smile graces Shedad's lips. (The first time he's seen it, anyway.)

Melek scowls slightly and takes to studying his amulets and charms again. Not much has changed there and it seems like he hasn't sold all that many over the month he's spent here. And Yamir still hasn't shown himself. That thought sets his teeth on the edge, along with the complacent and utterly relaxed expression on Shedad's face, and he leaves again. But this time he already knows that he will be finding his way back to the market square and to his lot again. There's just something that seems to draw him to the other man. He's certain it's the fact that he handles snakes with such familiarity and careless ease.

* * *

_**Reference notes:**_

_Ta-Mehu_: Lower Egypt; lit., "land of papyrus"

_Kharga (El-Kharga, Kharga Oasis)_: southernmost oasis in the western Egypt, in Libyan desert. Also, a caravan crossroad.

_Kemet:_ Egyptian name for ancient Egypt.

_mizmar_ – Arabic wind instrument, somewhat similar to a flute (but the instrument Shaadi is actually playing is called a _pungi_ or _been_)


End file.
